Back to the Future Part IV
Chapter 2 – Home
Floodlights erupted across the Hill Valley Police Impound Lot as the DeLorean’s tires screeched against the pavement. Marty slammed the gearshift and tore through the open gate. A guard shouted. Dogs barked. Two squad cars peeled out behind him, their sirens cutting through the night air.
As if destiny itself were in on the joke, it started raining.
“Perfect,” Marty muttered. “Because this wasn’t going to be hard enough already.”
He pushed it — sixty, seventy, eighty — the flux capacitor started to hum behind him. Then he glanced back at the speedometer on the dashboard. 85 mph.
He grimaced. “Not yet.”
The instant he hit 88, the flux capacitor would activate and launch him into 1935 — alone. For a split second, Marty considered just turning the time circuits off, but he couldn’t risk it. Marty knew all too well how glitchy the DeLorean could be, especially after everything it’d been through. If he turned them off now, there was a chance the information would be wiped when he turned them back on. There was also no guarantee that the time machine hadn’t been modified or suffered any more damage. Who knew what another lightning strike could do to it? He couldn’t risk losing the destination in the time circuits. Going back to 1935 without the kid would be pointless. He had to stay below that speed, and out of jail.
“Think, McFly. Use your head.”
The cruisers closed in fast. One tailed his bumper while the other flanked his left side, spotlight bouncing off the DeLorean’s chrome. Marty scanned the road ahead — a half-flooded intersection, blinking yellow light, and beyond it, a service entrance running into a freight depot.
Marty waited for the perfect moment. Then he killed the headlights.
In the rain-slick darkness, the DeLorean vanished into shadow. Sure, the taillights were still visible, but in a chase it was enough. The police hesitated, the left cruiser slamming its brakes, the other swerving wide to the right off the road.
Marty jerked the wheel hard left, splashing through the narrow entrance. Tires kicked up water and gravel as he slipped behind a low fence and into the freight yard.
He cut the engine, coasting silently between two parked semi-trailers. The DeLorean rolled to a stop in darkness.
Marty exhaled, gripping the wheel. “Still got it.”
Marty stayed low in the seat, letting the engine tick cool. One of the cruisers thundered by, siren fading fast. He waited, counting the seconds under his breath until silence returned.
Then—nothing. Just rain whispering against the freight containers.
He eased the DeLorean out from between the trailers and crept toward the exit gate. The coast looked clear.
He waited just a bit longer, then rolled slowly to the exit and back toward the main road. The freight depot shrank in the rearview mirror.
“Guess that’s that,” Marty muttered.
The words had barely left his mouth when a new glare flashed across the windshield.
Headlights.
One of the cruisers shot past in the opposite lane—the other must’ve taken a different turn.
The cruiser whipped around as if doing a double-take. Red and blue lights ignited—close. Too close. The cop had been waiting for him to circle back.
“Aw, come on!” Marty slammed the gearshift and tore down the slick road heading back into town.
The chase lit up the night again. Red and blue strobes bounced off storefront windows as the DeLorean hydroplaned through shallow puddles. Marty took a hard left, then another, trying to break the line of sight. The engine howled, getting far too close to 88 more than once. But Marty knew just how to toe that line. This wasn’t his first time behind the wheel of the DeLorean. It also wasn’t his first time being chased. He knew a few tricks that could get him out of a jam.
Up ahead, a half-finished subdivision opened onto a skeletal construction site—cranes, girders, stacks of lumber under plastic wrap. The perfect maze.
Marty cut the wheel, skidding through the open chain-link gate and into the site. Mud and gravel splattered against the fenders. After a few sharp turns, he jerked the DeLorean behind a row of concrete pipes, killed the lights, and let it drift to a stop beside an unfinished foundation.
He jumped out of the car, grabbed a tarp from a nearby workbench, and threw it over the DeLorean. The siren screamed closer, then blazed past without slowing. The spotlight swept each side of the street—left, right, then back again.
Marty crouched in the shadow of the steel frame, heart pounding.
He exhaled hard. “Two close calls in one night. Keep this up, McFly, you’ll get frequent-flyer miles.”
He looked back at the covered car, the tarp rising and falling slightly as the engine cooled beneath it. The night was dead quiet again, but Marty thought it best to wait a little longer. When it became clear the cop probably wasn’t coming back, he threw off the tarp, opened the gullwing, and got back in the DeLorean.
The time circuits blinked softly:
OCT 16 1935 – 7:02 P.M.
Marty frowned. “So that’s where you came from, huh?”
“How’d you even get back here?” he murmured. “And why 1935? Doc and I never went near that year…”
The question gnawed at him. The DeLorean never moved without a reason, but the clock in his head was louder than curiosity.
“Gotta move,” he said, starting the engine back up. It was only a matter of time before the police realized they were chasing nothing. He had to get to the foster home.
Mud sprayed as he pulled out, heading back toward town.
The Hill Valley Foster Home sat dark at the end of the street — an old brick building with a sagging front porch and one flickering light. Marty slammed to a stop across the street, then tapped the horn twice. Nothing. No time for subtlety. Marty laid on the horn.
Finally curtains rustled. A few upstairs lights flickered on. One window in particular opened up, then shut even faster. And then, through the doorway, came the kid.
Small, nervous, and barefoot, the boy stared at the car like he’d seen a ghost.
Marty reached over and popped open the passenger-side gullwing door.
“Get in!” he called.
The boy froze for a moment — just long enough for one of the caretakers to appear behind him, shouting. Then he bolted down the steps and sprinted across the lawn.
He jumped into the car, breathing hard.
“Just tell me one thing kid,” Marty said, eyes forward. “What’s your name?”
“Emmett,” the boy panted. “Emmett Brown!”
Marty blinked. “Oh, this is heavy.”
“What?” Emmett asked, looking puzzled.
The caretakers shouted from the porch.
“Never mind,” Marty said, gripping the wheel. “Buckle up!”
He hit the gas, the tires splashing through puddles as the car sped away into the night.
“Where are we going?” Emmett asked with a mixture of fear and excitement.
“We’re taking you home.”
The tires hissed through the rain as the DeLorean shot down the narrow street. In the rearview mirror, blue and red strobes flared to life again.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Marty barked.
Two cruisers rounded the corner, fishtailing through the wet streets. Marty slammed the gearshift and headed for the county road—flat and straight enough to reach eighty-eight.
“Hold on!”
Emmett clutched the dashboard as Marty hit seventy, then seventy-five. The wail of sirens rose behind them, a duet of angry engines.
“We’re not gonna make it!” Emmett shouted.
“Sure we are,” Marty muttered. “Just gotta open her up.”
The time circuits flickered, the readout stabilizing on the same impossible date:
OCT 16 1935 – 7:02 P.M.
Marty pressed harder. Sparks snapped across the hood. The flux bands began to glow.
Then—headlights exploded in front of them.
A third cruiser cut across the road, blocking their path.
“Oh, sh-” Marty hissed.
Emmett screamed.
The speedometer hit eighty-eight. The flux capacitor roared to life.
White light swallowed everything.
The cruisers vanished. The rain became dust. The air bent inside out with a thunderclap, and suddenly—
—the DeLorean burst into existence on a dirt road under a clear night sky.
A black Cadillac was barreling straight toward them.
“Whoa!” Marty yanked the wheel. The DeLorean skidded sideways, gravel spraying like gunfire. The Cadillac’s horn blared as it thundered past, barely missing them.
They came to a smoking stop facing open farmland. Marty’s hands trembled on the wheel.
“Is this it?” he asked.
Emmett sat gripping the seat, petrified. But managed a small nod.
Marty exhaled, “Good.”
He looked around—the landscape was the same Hill Valley, only younger. No freeway lights. No neon. Just fences, dirt roads, and a half-built skyline under the evening haze.
“Where to, kid?”
“The Brown Mansion,” Emmett said. “It’s on the north ridge—”
“I know where it is.”
Emmett blinked. “You’ve been there?”
Marty winced at his own carelessness. “Yeah. Well, sort of.”
He turned off onto a back road, keeping the car in the shadows of the hedgerows. No sense driving a stainless-steel spaceship through town. Even at night this would look very conspicuous in 1935.
The road wound between fields, and the hum of the engine filled the silence until Marty finally spoke. “So, you wanna tell me how you ended up with this car in the first place?”
Emmett shifted in his seat, staring out the window. “My father—Erhardt Brown—made some enemies. He’s a judge in Hill Valley. There’s a man named Eddie Black. He runs everything around here—liquor, gambling, all of it. And his right-hand man, Kid Tannen. They told my father if he didn’t rule their way on a case, he’d regret it.”
Marty’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Of course there’s a Tannen.”
Emmett stared at him blankly, clearly confused.
“So, I’m guessing your father isn’t playing ball.” Marty continued, changing the subject back.
“No. Well, not yet. They came to our house one night and took me. Said I was insurance.”
“So, they want your old man to dismiss the case before it goes to trial, and Black’s goons get off scot-free.” Marty concluded.
Emmett nodded. “They kept me at the old police station by the railyard. I tried to escape once, but they caught me. The second time… I saw this strange car in one of the garages. Looked like nothing I’d ever seen. Metal, no noise, just… humming. The key was still inside.”
“So you took it.”
He nodded. “I didn’t know what it was. I just thought, if I could get it started, maybe I could get away.”
“And you did.”
“They got in their cars and chased me. I went faster and faster until—” he mimed an explosion with both hands “—everything went white. Then I was in Hill Valley, but… different. No one knew me. No one knew my father.”
Marty stared ahead, thinking. The DeLorean isn’t supposed to be here in 1935. That means something’s seriously off. If this car’s active in this time, then somebody’s tampering with the timeline.
The farmhouse lights thinned out ahead, giving way to the wooded hill where the Brown estate stood, still in its former glory—current glory. “We need to stash the car before anyone else sees it,” Marty said.
“We can hide it in my laboratory,” Emmett offered quickly. “It’s the outbuilding beside the mansion. Father lets me use it for experiments.”
Marty frowned. “He won’t notice?”
Emmett shook his head. “He never goes out there. He’s not… interested in my experiments.” His voice cracked a little.
Marty’s chest tightened. He glanced over at the young boy—the same mind, just not yet molded into Doc he knew—would know.
“We’ll fix things,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, kid.”
The mansion’s lanterns came into view through the trees, a warm glow against the cold mist.
Marty slowed the DeLorean and turned away from the main entrance down the side drive toward the smaller structure beside the main house. The carriage-house-turned-lab was dark, cluttered, and perfect.
Together they draped a tarp over the DeLorean and stacked crates in front.
Marty stared at it, lost in thought. Maybe I should go back to 1885, pick up Doc. He’d know what to do.
He shook his head. But that’s a bad idea. Can’t risk crossing the streams. Two Docs, one timeline…
He smirked at himself. “Looks like I’m on my own this time, Doc.”
Emmett turned to him, confused and hesitant but eager. “I could help. I know this town better than anyone.”
Marty started to refuse—but stopped. He remembered being the kid tagging along with a wild-haired scientist who believed in him before anyone else did. Plus, he could use the kid’s help; he knew nothing about 1935 Hill Valley after all. But Emmett needed to be kept safe.
He smiled and extended his hand. “Looks like we’re partners, kid. First things first, we keep this thing hidden. And you need to stay out of sight, at least until I get the lay of the land here. All this is for nothing if those goons catch you again.”
Emmett nodded excitedly, “I can stay in here. I spend all my time out here anyway. No one talks to me at school either, so I doubt anyone will come looking.”
Emmett sat in a chair by his makeshift work desk, drawings and diagrams scattered all over the place.
Marty winced a bit at just how easily those words came from the young Doc’s mouth. Suddenly the Doc Brown he knew was starting to make a lot more sense. Why wasn’t his father busting through their doors with a squad of cops? Surely he knew where Tannen’s hideout was. The Tannens aren’t known for keeping a low profile. And the biggest mystery of all: Tannen Marty knew, but Eddie Black? He didn’t have the faintest idea who this person could be, but he seemed to be the one in charge of everything.
Marty grabbed another chair nearby and sat down next to Emmett. “For now, you tell me everything you know about this Kid Tannen and Eddie Black.” Marty said extending his hand to his new friend.
Emmett grinned, shaking his hand firmly. “Okay, Mr. McFly.”
Marty laughed under his breath. “Marty. Just Marty.”
Outside, the clock tower’s distant chime drifted through the hills—midnight, again.
Marty looked at the tarp-covered DeLorean. “We’ve got work to do.”